


Fighting Against Instinct

by xxSparksxx



Series: And Then There Were Two [9]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Enough, now,” he says. There’s enough of an edge to his voice to make it an unmistakeable command. “Tell me what’s wrong. It’s not just a long day and a snowstorm, so don’t pretend it is.”</p><p>“I’m not going to pretend,” Vera snaps. But he’s got a right to be suspicious, she knows. She can’t blame him for it. He knows her too well, he knows how easily she lies. How second nature it is for her to lie and deceive and make those around her <em>believe</em>. “I’m not going to pretend,” she repeats, softer this time. “Just…” She can’t continue. She can’t admit that this is hard for her. Philip knows without being told, and she <em>won’t</em> admit it out loud. She wants him to look at her with that warm, approving expression, but her heart is warring with her head and all her instincts scream that she should hide away all her weaknesses, <em>always</em>. Even with Philip. Perhaps especially with Philip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting Against Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> This…grew bigger than anticipated. This series seems to be making a habit of doing that to me!! Thanks to mmmuses for everything, and rainpuddle13 for everything plus beta-reading :)

It starts to snow when Vera is still a mile from home.

It’s Christmas Eve, and she’s just finished her last day’s work until the second of January. Eight days of holiday. Eight long days away from the doctor’s surgery, away from the coughs and the sneezes and the complaints about doctors’ bills. Eight days of being able to lie in bed for hours if she wants to, of coaxing Philip to stay with her. She has counted down the minutes today with imagining long, slow mornings in bed with Philip, keeping each other warm.

And she plans to finish decorating the sitting room. They’ve stripped off the wallpaper but not painted the walls yet, and she wants to stain the floorboards a different colour. She wants to make cushions for the couch, too, but that will have to wait. She refuses to do it by hand, and so she’s saving a portion of her wages for a second-hand sewing machine. There’s one in the local pawnshop that she’s got her eye on. It’s an extravagance, perhaps, but one she feels she can allow herself. She’ll be able to afford it in a couple of months. Maybe sooner, if she can find a way to set aside a little more from her wages. 

She’s never had a home of her own to decorate. She’s never had a _home_. The children’s home had been given that name, but there had been nothing homely about it, and it was always made quite plain that they owned nothing there. After that she’d been in shared digs for university, and then boarding schools, other people’s houses or hotels. She’s never had a space that’s _hers_. It’s a novel experience, one that she’s still learning how to appreciate. There’s an edge to it all, still, even though more than two months have passed since Philip bought the house. She’s enjoying creating a home for them, and yet she still can’t fully trust that he means what he says. That this is no passing fling for him. So she plans and decorates and finds pieces of second-hand furniture, but sometimes she feels that icy fear creeping into her stomach. The fear of being left alone again.

At the surgery, everybody has been talking incessantly about their holiday plans. Vera has none of those, no desire whatsoever to celebrate Christmas, but her goals for her holiday are precious to her, nonetheless. To continue making the house into a home.

Vera pauses in the doorway of a shop, staring up at the sky. It’s come on suddenly, this snow, and it’s no mere flurry. It’s coming thick and fast. It’s building up on window sills and the corners of the pavement. Vera’s coat is thick, and she has gloves and hat, but she wishes she’d brought an umbrella. A mile feels a long way to go in the snow, especially in a new pair of high heels. But there’s no choice, so she lifts her collar up to protect her neck and moves on.

She goes as slowly and carefully as she can, but the pavement is swiftly becoming treacherous, and everybody is walking with their heads down, to keep the wind and the snow off their faces. All the adults, at least; the few children she sees seem full of delight, and she hears snatches of happy conversations about a white Christmas. Each time she hears that word, her good humour wears away a little more. She’s bumped into several times, too, and more than once she has a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue to the apologies she receives. She doesn’t care that it’s a white Christmas; she doesn’t care that people are hurrying home with the last of their shopping. Gone are her daydreams of what she’ll do with her time off; instead all she can think about is a hot bath. Supper can wait, she thinks to herself as she crosses the road and reaches the last leg of her journey. A hot bath is what she needs. 

Her left shoe breaks at the heel when she’s nearly home. Vera curses under her breath, and bends to pick up the heel. New shoes, and the heel has just snapped off. She can glue it back on, probably, but it’s a frustration that adds to the bad temper that she’s brewing. Every gust of wind, every mouthful of snow, every uncomfortable step makes her feel more and more cross. Not even the sight of the house can cheer her. There’s light spilling out from around the edges of the curtains, so Philip must be at home, which probably means he’s prepared something for supper. But it can’t soothe her; she’s too tired, too wet, too cold.

Vera unlocks the front door, steps into the hallway, and slams the door behind her. For a moment she leans against it. The radio is playing softly in the sitting room, and she can smell something cooking in the kitchen. Wearily, Vera pulls off her gloves and unpins her hat. 

“I’m back,” she calls out.

“I heard,” Philip returns, his amusement obvious in his tone. He’s in the kitchen; Vera takes off her coat, kicks off her shoes, and goes in search of him. “Really, Vera,” he’s saying, “what did that door ever do to you?” He’s got his back to her, standing at the stove cooking something. Eggs, she identifies. And bacon, too. Her stomach growls, but she wants a bath more than she wants to eat. She’s shivering, even in the relative warmth of the house. A hot bath, and a glass of whisky. That’s what she wants. And perhaps then she can forget about the fact that it’s Christmas Eve.

“It’s snowing,” she tells him. Philip glances over his shoulder at her. He looks relaxed at first, and then something sharpens in his eyes as he takes her in. Vera can’t bring herself to care what he sees. “I’m going to have a bath,” she says. “You needn’t wait for me to eat.”

“What’s wrong?” Philip asks. Vera shrugs a shoulder, shakes her head, and turns to go. Then she sees something on the dining table, and she pauses. There’s a candle there, which isn’t unusual. What’s unusual is the way it’s sitting, there in the middle of the table, in the centre of a wreath of holly and ivy. Vera stares at it, and recognition takes a moment to sink in. This is a Christmas decoration. 

Still, it’s just a small thing. Just a candle. They often light candles. Vera has always loved the way candlelight dances, and Philip never objects when she lights candles in the sitting room rather than switching on the electric light in the evenings. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a candle. She can live with a candle, she can accept it in her home, _their_ home. It’s not as though Philip has mentioned wanting to do anything for Christmas, after all. The subject has barely come up between them, and certainly he’s never mentioned wanting…well, wanting to _celebrate_. He’s never hinted that he might want to bring Christmas into the house. 

Vera would be quite happy to shut it out, along with the snow and the wind. But he’s brought it inside. 

“You should eat something,” Philip says, switching off the stove and turning to face her properly. “You’re late back. You must be hungry.” He says it mildly, without censure, but Vera flushes and shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “No, I just want to have a bath. It’s horrible weather out there, and my heel snapped. I just want a bath. Honestly, Philip, nothing’s wrong, I’m just tired and cold.”

She’s said the wrong thing. She knows she’s made a mistake as soon as the words come out of her mouth, but she’s lost the knack of guarding her tongue around Philip. She doesn’t weigh and measure all her words before speaking them, not with Philip. Not any more. He won’t stand for her lies; it’s one of the foundations of their relationship, an unshakeable boundary that he won’t let her cross. And she’s just lied; a white lie, a small lie, but a lie nonetheless. Philip knows when she’s lying. He always knows.

“That’s an interesting choice of words,” Philip murmurs. “ _Honestly_. Do you want to rethink that, darling?”

Vera tries to swallow. Her mouth is suddenly dry. There is a prickle of ice down her spine, because he’s looking at her with a dangerous expression that she knows too well. Cool and calculating and on the hunt, now he’s found a weakness. Two impulses war within her, a battle raging in the few heartbeats he’ll allow her before insisting she answer. Her instinct is to hide away, to lie, to don a mask and try to brave it out. She’s been with Philip for only four months, and four months is not enough time to erase twenty-five years of deeply-engrained habits. Those habits, those instincts, are telling her that the safest thing, the best thing, will be to slither away. To give him just enough truth to satisfy him, and to hide away the rest. The idea of making herself vulnerable is still too foreign to be adopted without qualm.

But she also wants to _tell_ him, to explain why she hates Christmas, why she’s in no mood to celebrate. Because Philip keeps dragging her hidden fears and hurts to the surface, and sometimes Vera just wants to let him do it. Sometimes she wants to open herself up and unbury her secrets, because he’s always so pleased with her when she offers something freely. So proud of her. His approval is like a warm blanket, wrapping around her and making her feel a little more secure every time.

A compromise, perhaps. She hates compromises, and she’s not sure he’ll accept it, but it is, perhaps, worth trying.

“I’m tired,” Vera tells him again, letting all her weariness show in her expression, in her body. Shoulders slumped, leaning against the doorframe. It’s not feigned, so it’s not a lie. It’s just that normally she doesn’t let it show so much. “And I’m cold, Philip. I walked over a mile in the snow. Can this…can it wait until I’ve had a bath?” Say yes, she wills him. Say yes. She doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t want to try to explain why the Christmas cheer has been so wearing on her, but if he insists, she will. She’ll do it, and she’ll do it willingly. He won’t have to drag it from her, he won’t have to claw at her defences to get at the truth…she just needs to be warm first, and clean. She needs that.

Philip doesn’t answer her straight away. He stands there, looking at her. His eyes are sharp, focused, his mouth a thin line. The sound of the radio drifts in from the other room, some jingle advertising a brand of soap. Vera wants to close her eyes, to lean more heavily against the doorframe. She didn’t have to lie about that; she _is_ tired, and though she’s warming up, she can still feel that aching coldness in her fingers and toes. But if she does that, if she closes her eyes…that would be admitting too much vulnerability, right now. So she keeps watching him, keeps eye contact. 

At last he nods. “Alright,” he says. “There should be plenty of hot water.” He turns back to the stove, lights it again. In a moment the bacon resumes sizzling in the frying pan. “I’ll cook you some more when you’re done,” he says. “This won’t last.” 

Vera refuses to let that jab find its mark. She pushes herself away from the doorframe, goes back into the little hall, and mounts the stairs. She closes the curtains in the bedroom, but doesn’t bother to switch the light on. She strips in the dark, dropping her clothes onto the floor carelessly, and walks naked to the bathroom. It’s chilly in here, but it will heat up when she runs a bath. Vera doesn’t wait for the bath to be full before she climbs in, so the tub is cold against her back, but soon enough the water level rises. Gloriously hot water, seeping into her skin, making Vera relax for what feels like the first time in days. She’s been carrying tension in her shoulders and in her stomach, and oh, to come home and find a Christmas decoration in her _home_ , her sanctuary…

Vera takes a breath and sinks beneath the water. Sanctuary, she thinks. That’s what this place has become, what Philip has become. She should never have let it get this far, but Philip has crawled into her mind and soul and yes, into her heart too. While he’s been peeling back all her masks, all her layers, he’s been embedding himself into her. Making her feel safe with him, making her feel cared for. A month ago, the knowledge of it had terrified her. There is still part of her that is terrified. But the fear is gradually being eroded. Day after day, he’s here. He’s still here. He’s seen so much of her ugliness, but he still thinks she’s beautiful. Vera is beginning to trust that Philip will always think that.

She stays underwater for as long as she can. Legs curled up, hands resting on her stomach, hair floating with the tiny waves made by slight movements. She can hold her breath for a long time, but eventually she has to rise, to inhale a lungful of air. Steam rises from the hot water, and her extremities are tingling as they warm up. Toes and fingers, nose and ears. What a snowstorm to come up out of nowhere. Vera idly wishes that she’d worn different shoes. Brand new shoes, good quality leather. The heel wasn’t made to stand up to slippery streets, clearly. But she’ll be able to mend it. She’s used to mending things.

She can’t hear the radio from downstairs; Philip must have switched it off. He’ll be eating his supper, she imagines. Fried eggs and bacon. She can’t smell it, from here, but her stomach gurgles at the thought. She _is_ hungry; perhaps she’d been stubborn to insist on a bath first. And he’d cooked for them both. But Vera doesn’t feel guilty about the waste of food, nor even his wasted effort. Guilt is not an emotion that she has felt often, in her life. It’s not something she’s familiar with. She can fake it, of course. Oh yes, she can fake it, cover her face with a mask of guilt and make people believe her. Everybody believes her, except Philip. She can’t fool him. But she never asked him to cook for her. She never asked for him to do any of it. So she doesn’t feel guilt now, except as the faintest of twinges when she thinks about Philip downstairs, eating alone, prepared to cook more for her when she’s finished here.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. Knuckles hitting wood once, twice. It’s brief, perfunctory, and Philip doesn’t bother waiting for a reply before he comes in. Six months ago, Vera would have curled up in the bath, bent her knees and hidden herself away. His appreciative glance would have made her prickly and defensive. But she’s used to the way he looks at her now, and she _likes_ it. So she doesn’t move, lets him look as much as he likes. The water laps at her chest, covering and exposing the swell of her breasts. If she inhales deeply her chest rises higher, bringing her nipples into the air. Then down again, back into the hot water. Philip focuses on her breasts for a moment, distracted by it. Vera feels a thrill of pleasure; she likes knowing that she can distract him like this, with her body. Not always, perhaps, but enough of the time. 

“I brought you a drink,” Philip tells her, when he stops looking at her chest. He’s got a glass in each hand; whisky, Vera sees. He wants to join her, then. She tilts her head a little, to let him know she doesn’t mind the intrusion. Philip comes into the bathroom, kicks the door closed behind him, and gives her one of the glasses before settling down on a stool beside the bath. Vera holds the glass carefully in her wet hand, takes a sip of the whisky and closes her eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. 

“I figured you could use it,” says Philip. Vera feels a smile tugging at her mouth, an unconscious action. She lets it show, lets him see it. “You stay in there too long, you’ll turn into a fish,” he teases.

Vera huffs a laugh and opens her eyes to look at him. The sharpness from downstairs is gone; in its place is warmth, and fondness, and…and something else, something Vera can’t quite name. She knows him so well now, and yet sometimes he’s still a stranger.

“You like comparing me to animals,” she accuses mildly. “What was it…a snake, on the ship when we came over? And something else…a hedgehog, I think.”

Philip’s smile is almost a smirk. “I suppose I do,” he says. He trails a finger across her arm, where it’s resting on the side of the tub to keep her glass out of the water. Elbow to wrist, then circling around the bony protrusion of her wrist. “Really you’re a chameleon,” he adds, almost idly. “My little liar.” Vera can hear the pride in his voice, the _possession_ as he calls her his. It makes her quiver, just a little. It would be barely noticeable, but the water ripples at every tiny movement she makes. The slight, involuntary movement of her hips is enough to make the water stir. His smirk widens a little. Vera has another sip of whisky, then she sits up a little and tilts her face towards his. A silent request that he obliges, meeting her halfway and kissing her tenderly, a hand cupping her cheek.

Vera sinks back into the bath when they part, sighing as the hot water eases her aches. “I’ll get out before the water goes cold,” she says. “I hate cold baths.” 

“I usually got a cold bath, when I was young,” Philip remarks. There’s a studied nonchalance in his voice, and when Vera glances sharply at him, she can see a blankness in his expression that means he’s guarding himself. She’s not surprised; he almost never volunteers information about his past. It’s not something he does, and so she’s not surprised that he’s cautious now. “Saturday nights, before church on Sunday,” he adds. “My mother and sister got the hot water. I had to make do with cold, when they were done.”

He’s never mentioned a sister before. Vera swallows down all the questions she would like to ask, because she knows he won’t answer if she’s too direct. 

“We were never allowed hot water,” she says, meeting truth with truth. “In the winter, the water would freeze over sometimes. We had to crack it open and wash in it, all the same.” She shivers. The bath water is still hot, but the memory is fierce. Hot water was for good children, matron had said. None of the girls in the home were good. Born in sin, they’d been told, and they must work every day to erase it. Cold water baths, hours of kneeling to pray. God forgives the penitent. None of the staff ever spoke up against the regime. None of the girls had ever dared complain.

Vera has another sip of whisky. It does a little to wash away the memories. “I hate cold baths,” she repeats. Philip nods, but doesn’t say anything. Vera closes her eyes and listens to the sound of him breathing, the noise of a car in the street outside, a burst of laughter loud enough to come through the wall from the next door house. She thinks about Philip’s sister. She wonders if she’s still alive, if Philip has left her behind in Ireland. Vera would ask, but she knows Philip well enough to know he’ll clam up if he doesn’t want to talk.

“Tell me about the Christmas decoration,” Philip says after a while. Vera sighs and opens her eyes once more. He’s not looking at her, but she doesn’t mistake that for lack of interest. He’s focused on her, on the hunt, and Vera knows well enough that if she doesn’t answer, the hunter will turn vicious. She’d said she would tell him, she’d agreed to that…but to have it forced on her so abruptly makes her want to dig her heels in.

“Tell me about your sister,” she suggests in return. She sees Philip’s lip curl, sees the sharp flash of anger in his eyes before it fades away behind blankness. Vera’s sure that he won’t answer. Perhaps he’ll even pretend she never asked the question. But then he surprises her; he takes a long sip of whisky and then shrugs one shoulder. It would seem a careless movement, except that it’s so clearly a calculated one.

“Not much to tell,” he says. “She died. A long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Vera murmurs. 

Philip flashes her a sardonic look. “Have you ever grieved, Vera?” he challenges her. “Felt it properly? Have you ever lost someone and felt so numb from it that there’s nothing else?” Vera flushes. He knows she hasn’t; he knows she feels things differently, so very differently. She’s lost things, lost people…but he’s right. She’s never felt like that. “Don’t offer me sympathy because it’s what people do when they hear that sort of thing,” Philip says. “Don’t do that with me, Vera. Save it for the rest of the world.” He has another drink. Vera follows suit, gulping down a mouthful of whisky. It burns her throat, warming her from the inside. “It was a long time ago,” Philip says again, more quietly now. “And the bastards that took her from me paid in full.”

Vera feels an unfamiliar impulse; the urge to reach out and comfort him. But she doesn’t, and not only because she can’t be sure he won’t reject it, reject _her_. She can’t remember the last time she wanted to comfort someone. She’s faked it, of course. Oh yes, she’s put on a pretence of sympathy or empathy, of compassion. But those feelings don’t come naturally to Vera, so she doesn’t try to offer him comfort. She wouldn’t know how to offer it in a way that was real.

“Good,” she says instead. Philip looks as fierce as she’s ever seen him, but after a moment the lines of his face soften. He dips his fingers into the water and flicks them to make a gentle wave. Then he traces the edge of a mark on her neck, low enough to be concealed by her clothes. He put it there three nights ago, kissing and sucking and biting at her skin until it bloomed into a bruise. It’s still purple-dark in the centre, though the edges are beginning to fade. Philip is fond of marking her. Bruises, bite marks, scratches from his stubble. Vera likes seeing her marks on him, too, of course, but it seems different for him. 

“Caitlin,” he says suddenly. “Her name was Caitlin.” He looks almost surprised. Vera wonders when he last spoke of his sister at all, let alone said her name. Years, she guesses. Years since he trusted anyone. Does he trust _her_ , then? She supposes he must. Her mouth is dry, and she drinks some more whisky. It’s jarring, to see so plainly how much he trusts her. And oh, she wants to trust him in return, she _wants_ to, but she’s…she’s afraid, still. What a coward she is, she thinks with disgust. She didn’t flinch at letting a young boy drown, but she’s too afraid to open up her heart to Philip.

He’s still stroking the mark on her neck, a gentle fluttering of his fingers against her skin. It matches the way her heart is fluttering, like there’s a butterfly trapped in her chest. Eventually Philip withdraws, and Vera finishes her whisky, willing herself into calmness. 

“I picked up your paint today,” he says. Vera frowns at him, opens her mouth to speak, but Philip forestalls her. “My foot’s fine,” he says. There’s an edge to his voice. He dislikes the reminder, Vera supposes, of the moment when he had been taken off guard. That’s fair enough, but Vera doesn’t let it stop her from voicing her concern.

“It’s not fine,” she tells him, “and you need to be careful.” 

“It’s healing.”

“Yes,” Vera agrees. “But it’s not healed yet. Around the house is one thing, but if you’d been limping about in the snow, you’d have –,”

“Why, Vera,” Philip interrupts, “I could almost believe you care.”

The words hang in the air between them. Philip’s face is blank, an unreadable mask, but his fingers are clenched tight around his glass. He had spoken with a casual quickness, as if it was an off-hand remark, but Vera knows better. She knows better. He’s trying to disarm her by bringing it up like this, when she’s been focused on him and his injury. And it can be no coincidence that he’s said it now, while she’s naked in a bath, and he’s still fully clothed. Philip takes every advantage he can get. Vera does the same, so she can’t blame him for it. Neither of them are foolish enough to believe they can get what they want without using every means in their power to achieve it.

And what does Philip want, she wonders. What does he want from her? They’ve been together for four months now, since the end of August. Longer, if one counted Soldier Island. She still doesn’t know what it is he _wants_. Oh, there’s smaller things. He wants her to be honest with him. He wants her to play her games, but never with him. He wants her in his bed, he seems to want her in his life…

But what does he _want_? Vera is at a loss, and she hates that. She _hates_ it. She hates the way Philip can make her mind go blank, make her struggle for words. Words are her weapons, words are her protection, and he just…pushes it all aside with a single sentence.

She tries to shrug it off. “It would serve you right if you made it worse, walking all over Brooklyn on it,” she says. Philip smiles, a thin smile with no mirth in it. There’s a glint in his eyes. He knows what she’s trying to do. But maybe he’ll leave it alone this time. Maybe he’ll let her wriggle out of answering what could easily have been a flippant, rhetorical question. “Did you get the right colour?” Vera asks then. “The cream?”

“Yellow,” Philip contradicts after a moment. He’s teasing her; it’s an argument they had when Vera had picked out the colour she wanted. It’s a cream-coloured paint, but he refuses to admit it. Vera lets herself relax a little bit. If he’s teasing her again, that means he won’t force an answer. At least not right now. “Yes, I got the right colour,” he goes on. “And paintbrushes. And I borrowed a stepladder from Tom Ryan, down the road. You can paint away to your heart’s content, now.” 

“I like making the house ours,” Vera admits. Then, before she can be embarrassed by the honest admission, before he can respond to it, she thrusts her empty glass at him and reaches for the soap. “The water will get cold,” she says. “I’d better hurry up.” She hears Philip sigh, a long exhale. She doesn’t look to see his expression. Self-preservation, she tells herself. She’s reminded him of another of her vulnerabilities, but there’s no reason to leave herself open to attack. But whatever he’s thinking, whatever he’s feeling, he says nothing. He takes the glass from her and stands up. The stool scrapes against the floorboards. Vera focuses on lathering the soap between her hands, even when Philip leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Alright, darling,” he murmurs. “Come downstairs when you’re ready.”

She will never be ready, Vera thinks as Philip leaves the bathroom. She’ll never be ready for everything that he seems to be offering her. She’ll never be ready to trust that he’ll stick with her, through thick and thin. She wears a wedding ring, but it’s as fake as the marriage certificate that Philip procured from somewhere, before they came here. They made no vows, no promises. Not that she’d believe Philip, even if he made those promises.

Except that she does believe him, doesn’t she? He’d promised to keep her safe, and she believed him. She believed him on Soldier Island and she believes him now. She believes that even if, even _when_ he grows bored of her, he won’t harm her. She believes that. She believes he’ll let her go without any physical damage. There’ll be other damage, of course, but that’s inevitable. Every time Vera loses something that she wants, she ends up with more damage inside, more scars. Every time.

She washes mechanically. Arms, legs, torso. Her hair too, since she’s already got it wet. There’s enough time for it to dry before she goes to bed. Then she pulls the plug out of the plughole, gets out of the bath, and wraps herself in a towel as quickly as she can. After the heat of the bath, the bathroom feels even colder. It makes her shiver; it makes her nipples harden. She contemplates, for a moment, trying to distract Philip. She cups a breast in her hand, looking down at herself clinically. He was right the other day; she _has_ put on some weight. Not that he seems to mind. No, she decides. He’ll see straight through it, and then he might turn vicious. Vera has learned to avoid that when she can. His sharp tongue rips her open in a way that sends her reeling, makes her winded, leaves her feeling scared and hurt and desperate.

Better to give him something willingly. Better to be honest, or to try, at least. He’s still hard and unrelenting, when she forces herself to share things that she’s never shared with anyone before, but at least afterwards he’s pleased. Afterwards he’s tender and proud and she could almost let herself believe that he…

“Don’t be a fool, Vera Claythorne,” she mutters to herself. It isn’t even worth thinking about it. She should have learned by now that castles in the sky are too insubstantial to become reality. Hugo had taught her that lesson; Philip seems determined to make her forget it. But she won’t. She mustn’t. 

She scrubs herself dry and goes back to the bedroom. She finds a clean pair of pyjamas in the chest of drawers, her warmest flannel ones, and thick woollen socks. None of it is flattering, but Vera needs to send a signal to Philip. A sign of her willingness to cooperate, though she’d evaded him in the bathroom. Besides, it’s still snowing and likely to get even colder as the evening wears on. She rubs her hair with the towel, brushes it briskly, and leaves it loose to dry in front of the heater in the sitting room. At the last minute, before she goes back downstairs, she steals Philip’s dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door. It’s too large for her, of course, but he likes seeing her in his clothes, and Vera likes to feel wrapped up in him. It smells of him; of course it does. The tang of his cologne, the scent of his soap, all mingled together in one indefinable smell that is _Philip_.

When he gets tired of her, Vera thinks idly, she’ll steal his robe before he leaves. 

Philip is in the kitchen when she goes downstairs, but Vera only pokes her head in to let him know she’s down. Then she goes into the sitting room, heading for the big, comfortable couch. She can eat in here, for once; she wants to be curled up on the couch, not sitting up at the kitchen table. The oil heater is lit in here, and the room is filled with a comfortable warmth. It feels homely to Vera, despite the stripped walls and the bare spaces where she hopes to put furniture eventually. She’s putting down roots. The thought is disquieting. It’s compelling and terrifying at the same time. 

Vera tucks her feet underneath her and hides her hands in the sleeves of Philip’s robe. This is dangerous, she thinks. She is in greater danger now than she ever had been with Hugo. Philip is infinitely more dangerous. She’s known that since the beginning, though. It’s far too late to try to pull back. This is her home, now. Here, with Philip, she is creating a home. She’s creating something she’s never had before, and Philip’s part of that because he sees her. He _knows_ her. If only she could trust that he won’t leave her.

“Here.” 

Philip has come in, bearing a loaded plate. Scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes. Vera takes it, balances it on her knee. Philip drops onto the other end of the couch. Legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted back. Perfectly at ease, except she knows Philip well enough by now to see the smallest hint of predatory expectation in him. He isn’t going to let it go. Not that she expected him to; she’s only glad he’s let her defer it until she’s more comfortable. Three months ago it would have been a different story.

He lets her finish her meal. They chat idly; Philip comments on something from the morning’s newspaper, Vera relates an incident from work. Then, when her plate is empty, he plucks it from her and sets it down on the crate they’re using as a temporary table.

“Enough, now,” he says. There’s enough of an edge to his voice to make it an unmistakeable command. “Tell me what’s wrong. It’s not just a long day and a snowstorm, so don’t pretend it is.”

“I’m not going to pretend,” Vera snaps. But he’s got a right to be suspicious, she knows. She can’t blame him for it. He knows her too well, he knows how easily she lies. How second nature it is for her to lie and deceive and make those around her _believe_. She closes her eyes briefly, and then she shifts on the couch so she can lean against him. Philip drapes an arm across her shoulders; she rests her head against his chest. “I’m not going to pretend,” she repeats, softer this time. “Just…” She can’t continue. She can’t admit that this is hard for her. Philip knows without being told, and she _won’t_ admit it out loud. She wants him to look at her with that warm, approving expression, but her heart is warring with her head and all her instincts scream that she should hide away all her weaknesses, _always_. Even with Philip. Perhaps especially with Philip.

“You’ll forgive me for assuming otherwise,” Philip remarks. “You lie the way other people breathe.” There’s neither praise nor accusation in his tone, and Vera can’t see his face, not without moving. She can’t tell how he means that. But she chooses to take it as a simple observation, because anything else is too difficult to navigate.

“If you didn’t want a liar, you should have picked another girl,” she says lightly. Philip chuckles, a dark chuckle that rumbles in his chest, beneath her ear. 

“True enough,” he agrees. He lifts his hand, combs his fingers through her damp hair. He pets her, gentle and rhythmic. “So it’s a good thing I like your lies,” he murmurs. Vera listens to his heartbeat and soaks up the warmth of being close to him like this. Then he scratches her, nails scraping lightly across the base of her skull. “You’re avoiding, Vera,” he says, chastising her. “I like your lies, but not when you use them on me.” Philip pauses, and then resumes stroking his fingers through her hair. “Come on, darling,” he says, soft again now. “Out with it.”

It’s the endearment that does it; the endearment that reminds Vera that he’s never yet scorned her when she’s offered up a new fragment of herself for his consideration. He’s puzzled her out and stripped her bare, he’s left her aching from vulnerability, but he’s still here. He calls her ‘darling’, and ‘my Vera’, and he’s _still here_.

“I hate Christmas,” she admits, speaking quietly, feeling full of tension despite the tender way he’s petting her. “The home I was in…we were never allowed…” She sighs, irritated with herself. She wishes she had a cigarette, or a glass, or _something_ to keep her hands occupied. Instead she digs her nails into her palms, hidden by the cuffs of Philip’s dressing gown. Philip is silent, but his hand keeps moving through her hair. Steady and without pause, just like his heartbeat beneath her ear. “We didn’t have celebrations,” she says, trying again. “Christmas was about God.” She laughs, bitter and weary. If God had been in that place, then Vera cannot understand how anybody can claim to worship that God. “No decorations. No presents. None of that. We had a nativity in the chapel, but that was all.” 

She can hear a frown in Philip’s voice when he speaks. “I’d have thought you’d love having it now, then,” he says. “Most people –,”

“I’m not most people,” Vera says sharply. Philip takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly; he’s irritated at the interruption, she guesses, but she doesn’t lift her head to see his expression. She stays where she is, curled up against his side. He’ll make his displeasure known if he likes; there’s no need for Vera to suggest that she might regret cutting him off before he could say what he’d intended. She doesn’t regret it. She’s not most people, and Philip shouldn’t forget that. Vera can’t, after all. Vera spends almost every minute of her life aware that she is _different_. She is always aware that without her masks and lies she would be ostracised for who she is and how she feels. She can’t forget it, so neither should he. 

He’s still stroking her hair. Vera presses her lips together, grits her teeth. She doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence, but Philip is an expert at using silence as a weapon against her. He can draw it out, until it’s a heavy, oppressive weight. Until Vera has no choice but to crack. She lacks patience; that’s why he always wins these battles. Philip has it in abundance. 

And so of course he wins now. At length Vera shivers. “I was there a long time,” she mutters. She slides a hand out from the cuff of the dressing gown and fingers one of his shirt buttons. “Eighteen years. Most of my life. I don’t change easily, Philip.” 

“No,” Philip agrees. “No, I know you don’t.” He sounds quiet, thoughtful. He’s still petting her, long strokes of his hand over her hair. This is worth it, Vera tells herself firmly. Opening herself up like this, turning herself inside out…it’s _worth_ it if Philip will only stay. If he’ll stay with her and keep _caring_ for her. That will make it all worth it. Oh please, she thinks, let him stay. There isn’t much she won’t do to make him stay.

The thought of that, the acknowledgement of the depths of her want, her _need_ to keep him in her life, makes Vera agitated. She pulls away from Philip, uncurls herself and stands up. There’s a cigarette case on the mantel above the oil heater. She takes one out, strikes a match and lights the cigarette. Her hands aren’t shaking, she’s pleased to see. Sometimes Philip shatters her control of her reactions, but not this time. This time she’s still in command of herself. For now, at least.

“You want one?” she asks, holding up the case, but not turning back to face Philip.

“No,” he says. There’s a coolness in his voice now, a slight edge. Vera hears it, but she ignores it. It’s because she got up and moved away from him, she tells herself. Nothing more. “But I’ll have the rest of the story from you,” Philip adds. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

“There’s nothing more,” Vera lies. It’s a mistake. She knows it’s a mistake. She hadn’t intended to lie to him this evening, or to try to lie. She’d meant to tell him the truth. But the lie had come out, easy as breathing, and once it’s said there’s no taking it back. She can’t take it back now. She can only cling on to the course she’s taken by lying to him. She takes a long pull at her cigarette. Idiot, she tells herself. Idiot. Lying to Philip never works. But she can’t take it back; she’s too proud for that. Too stubborn. Find the lie, stick to it, make it real. That’s how she’s always operated. She can’t shed that skin in just a few months.

“I am getting really fucking tired of you lying to me,” Philip says eventually. He sounds cold and controlled, and Vera knows that if she were to turn around, if she had the courage to turn and face him, she’d find that horrible blank expression on his face. His eyes will be dark, his features composed and giving away nothing. Cold and calculating and, underneath it all, _angry_. 

Vera doesn’t say anything. What can she say? There’s nothing, now, that is likely to appease Philip. Nothing but the truth, and she’s already dug herself in too deeply to give up the truth easily now. With just three words she’s dug a hole, and now she can’t bring herself to crawl out of it. She smokes her cigarette and is bitterly grateful that her hand is still steady. 

“Not to me, Vera,” he says. She hears him get up, hears his footsteps approaching her. Her stomach clenches. “That’s the deal. You don’t fucking lie to _me_.” He grasps hold of her, a hand on each hip, and spins her around to face him. Vera’s so surprised she drops the cigarette; it lands on the floor and Philip grinds it into the wood with his heel. There’ll be a mark, she thinks distantly. At least she hasn’t stained the floorboards yet. “One more chance,” he growls at her. “Tell me the truth, or I swear to God –,”

“You’ll what?” Vera demands, lifting her chin and trying to meet him stare for stare. “Go on, Philip. What will you do?” A muscle twitches in Philip’s cheek, and he glares at her. Vera is swimming in treacherous waters, but she can’t back down. “Don’t make threats you won’t follow through on,” she tells him scornfully. “Every teacher knows that.”

Philip takes hold of her again, gripping her upper arms, tight enough that she knows she’ll bruise. He shakes her hard, and rather than fight him, Vera lets herself go limp. She lets him shake her. She’s no match for him physically; he’d proved that within three days of first meeting her, on Soldier Island. 

“Don’t test me,” Philip hisses. “What the _hell_ is going on with you this evening?”

“Nothing,” Vera says, because she’s clinging to her lie like it’s a lifeline. “Nothing’s going on. I’m tired, that’s all. Just _leave it_ , Philip.”

Something dark and vicious crosses his face. He shoves her away from him, sending her slamming against the wall. It knocks the air out of her, he shoves her so hard, and Vera is left trying to claw in a breath. Her lungs won’t work; there are tears stinging at her eyes. She tries to hit her chest, but she can’t seem to move. Philip stands there, watching. Mocking her with his silence. Vera can’t think. She can’t move. She can’t do anything but try to gasp for air. At last she manages a short, shallow breath. Then another, and another, and she slides to the floor and stares up at Philip. She feels one tear spill out, down her cheek. It drips into the corner of her mouth and she can taste the salt of it. She keeps panting for air, and he keeps watching her.

He’s never hurt her like this before. Not like _this_.

Finally Philip moves. With smooth, deliberate actions, he bends and picks up the discarded cigarette. He puts it on the mantel. Then he turns and leaves the room. Vera listens to the sounds he makes, the open and shut of the kitchen door, then a clink of keys. Panic grips her, forces her to her feet. When she reaches the sitting room doorway, he’s in the hall again, putting on his coat. Vera’s stomach feels like it’s filled with ice. He’s leaving. He’s leaving her. Words are beyond her; she makes an anguished sound, but Philip doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t stop putting on his coat, doing up the buttons, finding his gloves in the pocket. 

Vera pushes herself past him, to stand between him and the front door. Philip’s lip curls in a snarl, but still he doesn’t look at her. He won’t meet her eyes. Look at me, she thinks. Damn him, the least he could do is look at her, if he’s leaving.

“Get out of my way,” Philip orders. He might as well be talking to a stranger, for all the emotion she can detect in his voice. Vera doesn’t obey him, not this time. She stands in front of the door and thinks, frantically, of something to say. Philip steps closer to her, crowding her back against the door. Vera won’t flinch, she tells herself. She won’t flinch. “Get out of my way,” Philip says again. “I need to get the hell out of here before I do something else that we’ll both regret later.”

She manages to speak. “Philip,” she whispers hoarsely. 

“Get out of my fucking way, Vera.”

Vera gets out of his way. She steps aside and says nothing else as Philip wrenches open the front door. It slams behind him, and that makes Vera flinch where his closeness had not. The slam of the door makes her flinch, and then she stands in the silence of the house and hates herself. She hates her own nature, she hates her deeply-ingrained defences, she hates that she doesn’t know how to feel things the way other people do. She hates that she loves Philip. She is filled with hate and fear and self-loathing, and it hurts her, like a physical wound.

Eventually she goes to the stairs and sits there, with her feet on the bottom step. She leans her head against the wall and fixes her gaze upon the front door. She doesn’t know if he’s coming back or not, but if he does come back, she’ll be waiting. She’ll sit here all night if she has to, though Vera hopes it doesn’t come to that. She hopes, desperately, that he won’t be gone for too long. That she’s not pushed him too far. Because a life without Philip has become unthinkable, and though Vera has been trying to prepare for it, though she’s been trying to hold some part of herself back to protect against the inevitable day, she knows now that nothing will prepare her. Nothing can protect her. She’s lost, utterly lost in it, in this relationship and these emotions that she’s so rarely experienced before.

She will survive without him. Of course she will; Vera is a survivor above all else. But she doesn’t _want_ to survive without him, and it’s terrifying to acknowledge that.

So she waits. She sits on the stairs and hugs herself and waits for him to come back. To come home. Because this is their home now, hers and his, and she can’t allow herself to think that he won’t come back. It’s cold in the hallway, and dark, but Vera can’t move. She can’t go back into the warm sitting room, nor upstairs to bed beneath layers of blankets. She can’t do anything but sit here and wait. Wearing Philip’s dressing gown, wrapped up in his scent, she waits for him to return and wonders what she will say to him. She wonders what she can possibly say.

Time passes, but Vera doesn’t know how long. Her watch is upstairs in the bedroom, and she won’t move to find it. It grows late; she knows that much, because she can hear the children next door thumping up the stairs on their way to bed. Then after a while, the parents follow. They’re a nice family, the Bells. They’ve made Vera feel welcome, though she knows they were a little taken aback at first by an Irish man married to an English woman. Bridget Bell has promised Vera some clippings from her garden, in the spring. Vera likes the idea of growing a garden, though she doesn’t want it to be all flowers, all form and no substance. She has her own ideas for what she’d like to plant.

At some point her eyes drift shut. She tries to keep them open, tries to stay awake, but the quiet and the stillness and her own weariness work against her. She leans against the wall and drifts into an uneasy, shallow sleep. She stirs with every noise. A car backfires in the street and she wakes. A door slams in a nearby house and she realises she has been asleep again. She can’t keep her eyes open, and if Vera were being sensible, she would go to bed. But she isn’t being sensible, and so she stays where she is. On the stairs, so Philip will see her as soon as he comes in. 

Because he will come in. He’ll come back. He _has_ to come back.

Eventually, when Vera has given up even attempting to keep track of the time, she’s woken from another fitful doze by a closer sound. A key turning in a lock. The front door swings open, and at last Philip is there. He doesn’t see her at first, too busy shaking snow off his hat. Then he glances up, and she knows he’s taken off guard because she can _see_ his surprise at finding her waiting for him. It’s written across his face, written in his raised eyebrows, his parted lips. If Vera weren’t feeling so fraught with the miasma of her twisted emotions, she would be pleased at surprising him. It’s a thing that so rarely happens.

“Vera,” he says. “What are you – _careful_!” Vera has tried to stand up, but she’s been sitting in one position for far too long. She’s stiff, and she can’t balance properly, and somehow she ends up nearly falling. Philip catches her, steadies her, his hands at her waist. There’s snow on his shoulders, melting now in the relative warmth of the house. Vera clutches at the lapels of his coat and forces herself to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice is a rasping croak, unused for too many hours, but she’s audible enough. Philip holds her close to him and looks down at her, and doesn’t make her repeat those words that are so hard for Vera to say.

“I know, darling,” he says. There’s a gentleness in his voice that Vera hadn’t expected. Nor did she expect what he says next. “I’m sorry, too,” Philip tells her, and it’s Vera’s turn to be surprised, Vera’s turn to stare at him. She can’t remember ever hearing Philip apologise like this. Oh, he’s said the words a time or two. That first day on Soldier Island, he’d apologised for staring at her. But he hadn’t meant it, and she’d known it at once. Since then…well, there’s been an occasional ‘sorry’ if they’d bumped into each other in the kitchen, but nothing like this. Nothing that’s real. And it’s not because of the way he tried to make her tell the truth, Vera realises. He’s never sorry about that. It’s a boundary he’s set, his insistence on hearing the truth from her. No, he’s sorry now because he hurt her. Because he shoved her and knocked the wind out of her and, Vera guesses, because he was close to doing more than just shoving.

“I’m alright,” she whispers. “No harm done.”

Philip nods once, a sharp gesture. Then he lets go of her waist, only to sweep her into his arms. Vera makes a startled sound and clings on to him, but he doesn’t take her far. He carries her into the warm sitting room and puts her down on the couch. Then he discards coat and gloves, sits beside her, and pulls her into his lap. Vera doesn’t offer any resistance. She nuzzles his neck and relishes the closeness, the warmth. She can smell alcohol on him, and tobacco smoke. He’s been at a bar, she guesses. She doesn’t care. He’s come back; that’s all that matters.

“I don’t hit women,” he says after a while. “I never have.” Vera closes her eyes and makes a small sound of acknowledgement. “I think men who hurt women are scum,” Philip goes on. “They’re filth. I’ve turned down jobs because I won’t hurt women.” He chuckles, a grim, mirthless sound. “I don’t have many rules for myself. I don’t care about morality or legality – you know that.” She nods. “But you just push my limits sometimes. You really do.”

“I’m sorry,” Vera says again. “I meant to – I _meant_ to tell you the truth, I just…” She can’t express what had happened. She could try, but even now she is too afraid of letting him know just how important he is to her. Just how tangled up in him she has become. “I wanted to,” she whispers. “I wanted to, Philip.”

He moves his head, presses a kiss to her forehead. “I can see that, now,” he admits. “I lost my temper.” 

“Not something you do often,” Vera suggests. Philip shrugs one shoulder, and Vera lifts her head so she can brush her lips against his in a chaste kiss. “You’re so patient,” she says wonderingly. “Nobody else has ever bothered.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, and Vera thinks it’s a warning, so she offers him a self-deprecating smile. “Not once they’ve seen who I am. People prefer the lie.”

“People are idiots,” Philip says. He lifts a hand to her head, slides his fingers through her hair and kisses her. It’s hard and bruising, nothing of tenderness in the press of his mouth against hers, though his hands are still gentle on her body. He possesses her with it, his tongue swiping across hers, delving into her mouth, until she’s breathless, boneless, leaning against Philip and relying on him to hold her up. He nips at her lower lip before withdrawing to let her catch her breath again. “Don’t bother with what other people think,” he murmurs warmly, intimately. “They’re not worth it.”

“It’s hard,” Vera says. Philip nods, and Vera feels compelled to say more. “I’m _trying_ , Philip,” she tells him. “You have to believe me. I _want_ to - to tell you everything, to explain…but I’ve spent all my life hiding, and I –,”

“I do believe you,” Philip interrupts her. “I know when you’re lying to me, remember?” A corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. “It’s alright,” he says. “I have a lot of patience. Usually,” he adds, when Vera lifts an eyebrow at him. “Usually I’m very patient. But I was surprised when you said you don’t like Christmas.”

Vera’s instinct, of course, is to withdraw when he says that. Physically and emotionally, to hide herself away and pull back from danger. To bury herself beneath a lie and let the lie be her defence. But Philip’s hand is still cradling her head, keeping her with him, and she doesn’t want to provoke his anger again. She doesn’t _want_ to lie to Philip. She closes her eyes, a meagre barrier between them, and feels Philip’s sigh as a warm puff of air on her face. 

“It’s alright,” he says again. “Shh, darling, don’t disappear into your head. Not yet.” He uses his hand on her head to bring her closer, and he kisses her eyelids, butterfly-soft. Her heart aches. “I suppose I wanted you to like it,” he reflects. “I want you to…” He trails off, and Vera’s almost tempted to open her eyes, to see his expression. But she doesn’t. She’s too afraid of what she’ll see. Philip goes on after a moment. “But then, I have a few happy memories of Christmas. And you don’t, do you? Not a single one.” Vera shakes her head, a tiny jerking movement. Philip hums. “I thought so.” 

This is easier, she thinks. It’s easier to confirm or deny his guesses than to actually find the words for herself. It feels less like she’s opening herself up, and more like he’s burrowing under her skin. It makes her passive, and Vera has never liked being passive, but it’s easier to bear right now. There’s no ripping open; there’s only a gentle, determined examination.

“I’m selfish, really,” Philip says. Now Vera does open her eyes, because it’s a true statement but it’s an unexpected turn of the conversation. Philip’s eyes are hooded, his eyebrows drawn together in a faint frown. “It occurred to me,” he goes on, “when I was out, that I bet you’ve never had a present in your life. Have you?” Vera shakes her head again, still confused.

“No,” she says. She moistens her lower lip; Philip glances down, attention sharply focused on her mouth, on the movement of her tongue and lip. “Well, I’ve had flowers, once or twice,” Vera corrects herself. “Sometimes at the school I might get a bar of chocolate.”

“Hardly counts,” murmurs Philip. He nips at her lip, lavishing attention on it, and follows the path her tongue had taken with his own tongue. Vera lifts a hand to cup his cheek, and scratches a nail gently across his stubble. She knows he’s not finished with her yet, she knows there’ll be more questions and guesses to come, but oh, she aches for him. The closeness, the intimacy of it, is warming her body as well as her heart. She wants the words to be done with for the night, so that they can share the easier, uncomplicated intimacy of their bodies. Philip wants that too, she’s sure. She can feel a heat to the way he touches her, the way he turns from teasing her to kissing her properly. 

But Philip is patient where Vera is not, and he breaks the kiss when she’s panting once more. She whines a little, high in her throat, and though Philip laughs at her, it’s not an easy laugh. There’s tension in it. There’s lust. He wants her, but he’s more patient than she is, and he’ll make her wait.

“I got you a present,” he says, before Vera can catch her breath. His words don’t help; Vera stares at him, feeling almost as though he’s knocked the air out of her anew. “I suppose I got a little frustrated when I realised you felt so strongly about Christmas,” Philip adds. “But at least I didn’t wrap it, so pretend it’s not a Christmas present.” He smirks at her, seemingly pleased by her surprise. “You’re good at pretending, after all.”

Vera finds her voice. “I don’t need anything,” she manages to say. “You didn’t have to –,”

“Recognise the fact that I like doing things to please you,” Philip says. It’s not a suggestion. There’s iron beneath his voice, beneath the gentle touch of his fingers to her cheek. Vera can do nothing but nod, nothing but try to fit it into her view of the world. Her view of _him_. It’s something she can believe, she realises wonderingly. He’s done things before with no other clear motive, after all. The house, for one, but other things too. The handcuffs. Her favourite meals. He likes to please her. Vera can believe that it’s the truth, though she can’t fathom the _why_ of it. “It’s in my coat pocket,” he tells her. “Can you reach it?”

She can. He’d discarded it on the floor by the couch, and she bends over and grasps hold of a protruding cuff. She pulls the coat up, rummages in the pocket, finds a small cardboard box and lets the coat fall back onto the floor. It’s a plain box, no writing or picture on it to reveal its contents. Vera glances at Philip and finds him watching her with a curiously expectant air. She shakes the box, but whatever is inside doesn’t make a sound. Philip rolls his eyes at her.

“Child,” he says, with enough fondness that it’s clear he doesn’t mean to insult her. “Open the damn thing.”

Vera obeys him. “Oh,” she murmurs, when she sees what’s in the box. “This is…” 

It’s a knife. It’s small. The blade is folded into the handle, which is made of a dark wood and polished to a shine. Her initials are etched into the handle. VL. Vera Lombard. She unfolds the blade and finds sharp, shining steel. It’s only a few inches long; she’ll be able to fit the knife into her handbag, or even into the pocket of a coat. It’s small enough, light enough, that it won’t distort the line of her coat. Small, but the blade is long enough to do damage. She feels her mouth curving into a smile.

“Philip,” she says softly. She glances up at him and finds him watching her with dark eyes, his lips slightly parted. “Philip,” she says again. “It’s perfect.” He looks pleased, and Vera folds the blade away again. “You’ll have to teach me how to use it. I’ve never used a knife before.”

“No, I thought not,” Philip nods. “You’re more subtle.” He takes the knife and sets it aside, on the other end of the couch. “New York’s not always a safe place,” he goes on, “and after the other week, I think you might begin to attract a bit of attention from people who won’t give you time to make them slip on the stairs.” 

“And so, the knife.” 

“And so,” he agrees. “Better than flowers or chocolate, hm?”

Vera looks at the knife, at how the handle shines and the engraved letters stand out stark and clear. Then she closes her eyes again, and clutches a handful of his shirt. “Why?” she demands. “Why, Philip?”

“Why what? The knife? I just said –,”

“No,” she interrupts. “Why _me_? You could have any girl you wanted, why would you put up with me? I’m – I’m not _normal_ , I’m not –,”

“I’m not putting up with anything, Vera,” Philip snaps. Vera can’t open her eyes, can’t look at him. She’s never asked him this before. She’s never dared ask, too afraid of what the answer might be. Too afraid that in asking him the question, he’ll realise there’s no good answer. “How many times do I have to tell you? I find most women utterly boring. You’re not. Do you _still_ not understand?”

“I don’t know,” Vera whispers. Then she shakes her head and braves looking at him. “I’m trying,” she says. That seems to be her refrain for the evening, but at least it’s the truth. It’s the truth, and he’ll know that, because he always knows when she’s lying. “You’re the first person who’s ever wanted me. _Me_ , not…not the lies I tell the rest of the world.” 

“The rest of the world are idiots,” Philip says scathingly. “C’mon, Vera. You’re better than that. You’re better than every single one of them. You’re glorious, and you’re _fascinating_ , and if you still think I’m in this for a quick fling –,”

Vera doesn’t know what he’s in this for, but she shakes her head in denial. No, she doesn’t think he’s in this for the short term, for a quick fuck or a few months of company. Whatever his motives are, he’s made it clear he’s planning longer term. 

“No,” she says. “No, I don’t think that.” Even now, she can’t risk asking why he _is_ doing this, why he’s here with her, what he’s thinking and feeling about her. She can’t risk it, because she’s still terrified of the answer. Nor can she tell him what she’s feeling, for though that might be a way to get her answer without asking the question, it might also lead to disaster. And Vera cannot give Philip up. Not willingly. He’s too important to her. She wants him too much. 

She has had far too much of what she wants ripped away from her. She won’t let that happen this time. Not this time. Not with Philip. 

“I don’t want to have another fight,” Vera says, smoothing the creases she’s made in his shirt. “We’ve had quite enough of that this evening, don’t you think?”

Philip is still glaring at her, but he seems to soften when she glances up at him. “I don’t want to fight, either,” he concedes. “Not at this time of the night.” He jiggles his knee, making Vera bounce a little. “Let’s go to bed,” he says. “Tomorrow we can keep the curtains closed and pretend it’s just you and me. No Christmas, no rest of the world. What do you think?”

Vera likes that idea. She likes the idea of shutting out Christmas, shutting out the world. There’s the candle in the kitchen, of course, but that’s all. She can handle that. It’s just a candle and a bit of greenery, and if Philip likes it, she’ll cope. She won’t pretend to like it, but she’ll accept it. She’s fighting against habit, against instinct, so much of the time with Philip. There’s so many opportunities for him to realise that she’s not glorious, that she’s _twisted_ , that she’s been created _wrong_. She won’t create more of those chances by objecting to a single candle with some holly around it. They’ll light the candle tomorrow evening. By the twenty-seventh it will be gone and the wreath will be thrown out for compost. And perhaps, in the meantime, Vera can create some of those elusive happy memories with Philip. 

“Alright,” she agrees. “But you’d better keep me warm.” Philip raises his eyebrows, and Vera smiles coyly. “Well, if there’s nobody else in the world,” she says, “what reason is there to get dressed?” She slides off his lap before he can stop her, and dances out of his reach when he tries to grab her. “I’m going to bed,” she says. “Coming?

Philip makes his response to her challenge perfectly clear and for now, at least, there is no more discussion about why Philip is here. For now Vera lets go the question of what he feels for her. Her instinct, after all, is to hide things away. This is just another secret to tuck deep inside her mind and heart. Eventually, no doubt, he’ll find it out, just like he discovers all her secrets. But not tonight. For tonight, it goes back into hiding.


End file.
